


Pignon

by seashadows



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Sewn Back Together Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean-Pierre ponders his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pignon

**Author's Note:**

> Mouse over the French text for translations.

_J’suis un pignon dans la roue de la Cloche._  
  
Once upon a time, he had been a beautiful man.  
  
 _J’ai pas peur de ma mortalité._  
  
Once, there had been no Dethklok, and now it was all he knew. Dethklok, and pain, intertwined as the bitter threads woven into the sweetest dish. The stitched wounds that ached and oozed every morning that he still lived, arcing needle-sharp hooks of agony into his once-separated brain to the point of unconsciousness - _mon Dieu, sur le sol, je viens de le laver_ \- were his mark, the price he paid for serving them.  
  
His Dethklok.  
  
This was his brand, angry, boiling heat on the flesh of his neck, malleable as _filet_.  
  
 _Seigneur_ Explosion was the best of them in his mind, although he would rather have been shredded into one of his own meals than admit to favoritism. Nor would he ever say the name, on pain of being drawn and quartered until he screamed for a crumb of mercy in the cold, dirty quarters of the lowest _Clocheurs_. Nathan. It was the same in, and on, his own tongue.  
  
The phrases he heard were sweet as sugar cane, savory as the juices dripping from the torch-seared roasts that Dethklok liked best:  
  
 _Eugh, bon matin. Je vais vomir._  
  
 _Bon café, Jean-Pierre._  
  
 _Je l’ai laissé tomber. Uh, par accident. Je t’acheterai mille de neufs._  
  
The dear man. He was hard-pressed to keep from bowing over his soup spoon when he served him, so grateful was he to hear his French. For all of them, he would rip the pieces of his body apart a thousand times over, but for the one who twisted his tongue for a lowly chef’s sake, he would chew them until the bitterness slid down his throat and strangled him alive.  
  
Perhaps his lords would approve; perhaps they would say it was brutal. He had already warranted one song for the brutality of his return to life, but a permanent, gory death would undoubtedly flood the halls of Mordhaus with a growling paean to his blood. The thought was almost enough to harden him, although his erection had returned from the dead less willingly than he.  
  
It didn’t matter. It had never mattered – not when Dethklok called out a siren plea for sustenance that quickened the shredded muscles of his legs. What was hurting and injured flesh to a band of men who styled themselves nearly immortal? What was it to them that his hands could barely feel the food they caressed into existence?  
  
 _Ce n’etait de rien._ They kept it beneath their notice, and so did he.  
  
The first time he met them, he had professed his loyalty in the strongest words he knew. His English had been stilted, his soon-mangled hands trembling, as the five of them stared him down and threatened him with the sorts of deaths that spattered blood and splintered bone. He had been afraid, of course – deathly afraid, but he had proven himself even from beyond a grave he avoided by millimeters.  
  
They didn’t doubt him now.  
  
His hands would scoop and grind, mix and stir and bake, sift and boil, for as long as he – and they – lived.  
  
 _J’suis un pignon dans la roue de la Cloche._  
  
 _J’ai pas peur de ma vie._


End file.
